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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28274547">Every Step on My Way Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frick6101719/pseuds/Frick6101719'>Frick6101719</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, but boy, didn't mean for this to be QUITE so angsty, she got a little angsty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:49:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28274547</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frick6101719/pseuds/Frick6101719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of moments and memories following the relationship between Effie and Haymitch.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Haymitch Abernathy/Effie Trinket, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Hunger Games 2020 Season of Hope Holiday Gift Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Every Step on My Way Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_writes_things/gifts">Emma_writes_things</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wish I could have written three times as much for this--there's so much to dig into with these two and so many ideas I had to set aside for time's sake.<br/>Nevertheless, this brought to you by Emma_writes_things's prompt requesting the moments that bridge the gap, the Balsam Fir hand soap from Costco, and "Bed of Roses" by Bon Jovi.<br/>Hope you enjoy, and happy holidays &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Haymitch’s Games are actually one of the earliest she can remember.</p><p>She was ten at the time, her parents had just split, and so she spent much of that exciting Games season sitting alone in the parlour of one home or another, blue eyes glued to the holo, her little hand digging through a little bag of snacks. She remembers it rather vividly, actually: the lustrous colours of the arena, the thrill and shock of learning it was all poison, her mother’s angry screaming heard only dimly from the foyer, the terrifying and sad death of the blonde girl from Twelve, the over-firm sofa in her dad’s sparsely-decorated apartment, the nail-biting finale, thinking Haymitch wasn’t quite handsome enough to win. He had nice eyes, though, and she supposed it was interesting to see how clever he was.</p><p>It’s unclear to Effie whether her fond memories of the Games are her mind playing tricks on her or simply the cruel, cruel hand of fate.</p><p>Because Haymitch Abernathy is an absolute <em>ogre.</em></p><p>He is <em>nothing</em> like the clever, resourceful, almost charming boy from fourteen years ago.</p><p>“Yer new,” he slurs. He lurches up behind her on the train platform, guided by whiskey fumes that assault her nose even before she turns around.</p><p>Her chartreuse stilettos screech on the metal grate as she twirls to face him, a smile already plastered onto her face. She feels her wig shift and corrects it under the guise of tucking a lock of behind her ear. “That I am,” she replies crisply, offering her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Haymitch Abernathy.”</p><p>He grunts, ignoring her hand. “What happened to Florencine?”</p><p>Had he not heard? “She died.” Her words are clipped.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Yes. Routine liposuction gone wrong,” she says, then promptly shuts her mouth. She ought not to have said that. Even if it was great news when she heard, knowing that meant she’d be called on next. <em>Twenty-four-years-old,</em> <em>and already an Escort. </em>Not a romantic beginning, what with Florencine’s untimely demise, but no matter. There’s nowhere to go from here but up!</p><p>Of course she’ll have to learn to mind her tongue a bit better. She’s doubly regretting her slip-up when Haymitch barks out a laugh. “Well how about that. Poor old broad.”</p><p>She purses her lips. “She was… a good woman.” It’s a lame-sounding chastisement, even to her own ears.</p><p>The Victor only snorts. “A good woman to replace, you mean. A wild turkey could do your job and look put-together by comparison.”</p><p>Effie almost slaps him for the implication, but he’s very drunk, and it’s her first day on the job. She <em>must</em> remember her manners. “I’ll try to do a better job than a <em>turkey,</em>” she says tightly.</p><p>Foolishly, she’d hoped that he would be an ally in shaping up the notoriously sad and barbaric District Twelve Tributes. It’s becoming clear to her now that, if anything, Haymitch is the <em>source</em> of the problem, with his incurably dour attitude and hopeless alcoholism.</p><p>Oh, he is a far cry from the smirking boy on the holo.</p><p>Her father warned her not to get her hopes too high. He too is an unpleasant pessimist, always telling her her dreams were too big, too unrealistic.</p><p>Her last conversation with Edmund Trinket, a few days before the Reaping, had been as close to a fight as he ever got. He’d taught her from the time she was small to be proper and kind, but she had been terribly smug when she told him of her placement as an Escort for the sixty-fourth Hunger Games. <em>How’s </em>that<em> for dreams too big, Papa?</em></p><p>He’d smiled. He’d tried to be happy for her. She could tell that he didn’t mean it, and she’d snapped. She’s always been an angry crier, and she’d cried then, hating herself for it, refusing to accept her father’s soft eyes or comforting arm stretched toward her. It all felt like pity, like an early offer of condolences for her inevitable failure.</p><p>But she’s worked so hard to get to this point. It hasn’t been easy. <em>He</em> made it so very difficult, coming from nothing, with no ambition, no name, no <em>style</em>.</p><p>Effie watches her new charges drag their feet up to the train platform, then flicks her violet-contacts toward their Mentor, feeling her spine harden.</p><p>Haymitch Abernathy is <em>not</em> going to make things worse for her. The odds are already so stacked against her, she <em>needs</em> him if she’s ever going to make something of herself. Being an Escort in the Hunger Games is a great beginning, but Escort for District Twelve? That… it doesn’t count. It’s just the first, necessary step in what is sure to be a long and glamourous career.</p><p>“Well Este,” Haymitch slurs, cutting her off to enter the train before she does. “Welcome to the show.”</p><p>“It’s Effie,” she corrects, hopping across the threshold, breathing deeply the smell of fresh wax and silver polish on the inside of the car. District Twelve smells like dust, smoke, and rot, and good riddance to all that. <em>This</em> is where she belongs: surrounded by pretty things, speeding merrily toward better destinations.</p><p>Haymitch Abernathy may be far from what she expected, but she’s made it this far. She has no doubt she’ll be able to whip him into shape and be off to a better District in a couple of years.</p><p>~~~</p><p>She has a suitcase in each hand when the train speeds away, leaving her standing alone on the platform. The day is windy, and her hair is just long enough to get into her eyes when it’s whipped about like it is right now, with her headscarf doing little to help. She squints against the brightness, wishing she’d fished her sunglasses out of her purse. She hadn’t thought she’d need them on such a grey September day, and certainly not for this dismal place.  </p><p>District Twelve is not like the place she remembers from over a decade of Hunger Games. Even the propos Katniss had filmed walking through the ruins of her home had not done justice to the destruction… and they’ve had a year to rebuild. It must have been unfathomable in the immediate aftermath.</p><p>Effie feels small, clad in practical walking shoes instead of her normal heels, as she picks her way through uneven, rubble-strewn streets toward the Victor’s Village. It’s not a terribly long walk, but it feels eternal, with everything she owns of any value in the leather bags weighing her down.</p><p>There are a few others out today, most of them working on their homes and shops, still in the process of rebuilding. Not that she knows about such things, but it seems like they still have a long way to go.  </p><p>She reaches the Victor’s Village shortly before she predicts her luggage will rip her arms from her body. The proud posture she’d done her best to adopt as she began her journey—head high, resolutely ignoring everyone she passes for fear of seeing loathsome looks on their faces—has capitulated entirely. She doesn’t even have the energy to feel ashamed of the sweat stains pooling at her underarms and on her lower back, nor of the way she’s hunched over looking almost as desperate as she is.</p><p>With a great, ghastly sigh, she drops her luggage on the stoop of a house. It’s her second time on this doorstep in thirty-seven years, and the last place she ever expected to end up. It hasn’t changed a bit.</p><p>~~~</p><p>By the time the seventy-first Hunger Games are unrolling, Effie has nearly abandoned all hopes of being promoted. It’s all Haymitch Abernathy’s fault, and oh does she make sure he knows it.</p><p>She doesn’t feel bad about her nagging. He has a job to do, doesn’t he? If he’s not doing it well, she’s not going to pretend everything is fine, especially not when it’s <em>her</em> life being affected by it. You can’t get to where she is without being willing to step on a few toes.</p><p>They get into a horrific fight the night of the Training Scores, their voices barely below screaming in the kitchen of their apartment in the Training Centre. She’d never seen Avox show emotion before, but the one who flees to find something to clean in another room looked almost afraid.</p><p>She can’t remember exactly how the fight began, but oh, she remembers clear as day how it ended.</p><p>Their Tributes that year had been more of the small, scared, ill-mannered type typical of District Twelve, and while she knows that she can’t really blame him for <em>that,</em> she can sure hold it against him that he spends all his time drinking and monkeying about with Blight and never puts a stitch of effort into Mentoring anymore.</p><p>“You could at least <em>try,</em> Haymitch,” she says, stomping her foot on the tiled floor. “Would it kill you to put in a little effort?”</p><p>If they both weren’t so furious, she’s sure he’d smirk and say something like “it might” but instead he glares at her from across the island, hands white-knuckled on the blue-and-silver granite. “<em>Try?”</em> he snarls. “You think I don’t try? You think I wouldn’t love to bring one of these kids home and away from all this shit?” he gestures widely, making sure to include her in the denouncement. “<em>Fuck you,</em> sweetheart.”</p><p>She can almost feel steam rising from her ears. “How can you possibly be trying when you can barely tie your own shoelaces you’re so drunk? <em>All the time</em>?” She steps closer. “I’m not saying it has to work out every time, but for <em>all</em> our sakes—”</p><p>“All <em>our</em> sakes?” he interrupts. “I’m not going to break my back trying to get <em>you</em> a promotion. You hate spending time with us so much? You can’t stand to be associated with outer-District shit like us? Then <em>quit.</em> We’d be better off without you anyway.”</p><p>“That’s not true,” she says, feeling tears rise in her eyes. <em>No. No, no crying, please….</em></p><p>He smirks. “So <em>now</em> you care what I think? Now the opinion of ‘a drunken embarrassment’ matters to you?”</p><p>She should never have said that. How many years has it been now? She’d thought he’d be too drunk to remember. “Stop, Haymitch—”</p><p>“We <em>don’t </em>need you. You’re supposed to be helping these kids too, aren’t you? But having you tag along hasn’t helped our track record any more than anything I’ve done.”</p><p>“<em>Stop!</em>”</p><p>He does, pressing his mouth into a hard line. Then he straightens. “I’m too sober for this shit.”</p><p>That does it, somehow more than his insults. Effie finds a crystal decanter in her hand, then watches it sail through the air toward Haymitch’s head. She’s not even consciously aware of having moved.</p><p>To this day, she dares not think about what would have happened if he’d been as drunk as he was any previous night of the Games. His relative sobriety gives him a reaction time just quick enough to raise his arms in front of his face as the crystal hurtles into them, exploding in a shower of sharp-edges and droplets of Cabernet Sauvignon.</p><p>She’s heard people say that wine looks like blood, but her first thought as the kitchen drops into sudden silence is that she doesn’t see how anyone could ever confuse the two. Blood is so much denser, brighter, smearing crimson instead of violet as it leaks across skin.</p><p>Her hands come to her mouth just as Haymitch looks down at his arm, sliced deep and oozing blood all over his jade-coloured shirtsleeves.</p><p>“Oh, Haymitch.” She recovers quickly, rushing forward, reaching for a towel, but he pulls away sharply when she touches his shoulder.</p><p>“Don’t,” he says, pushing her back, hard enough she almost loses her balance. “You’ve done enough.”</p><p>Now she does start to cry. Haymitch shoves past the Avoxes who burst through the doors at the sound of the commotion, bringing the towel with him. She can hear the door to his room slam even through the sound of her own sobbing.</p><p>She’s much slower in composing herself than she’d like to admit, staying in a crumpled pile of designer silk on the kitchen floor while the Avoxes just stare, uselessly standing by as she teeters precariously on the tiny points of her high heels.</p><p>She stands, lamenting the purple stain on her toe, focusing on that instead of the horrible feelings boiling in her chest. It won’t do to dwell on her own misery, on the knowledge that she’s made a mess of her life, let herself become the sort of person who shouts and throws things and gets stuck indefinitely with District Twelve.</p><p>She doesn’t even look at the Avoxes as she gestures at the mess, instructing them to clean it up, that she is retiring to her rooms and is not to be disturbed under any circumstances whatsoever.</p><p>Apparently she’s been disturbance enough.</p><p>~~~</p><p>“Effie?”</p><p>He looks a little bleary-eyed when he opens the door, but smells faintly of spearmint and sweat, not alcohol. She realises belatedly that there probably isn’t alcohol in District Thirteen. The world is a funny place sometimes.  </p><p>“H-hello,” she says, trying for a smile. Her face is unpractised at the act of late, and she’s sure it looks rather like a grimace.</p><p>He rubs his eyes. “Almost didn’t recognize you.”</p><p>That helps with the smiling. “Yes, well, I…” She what? She didn’t think she would have space for her wigs and makeup and eyelash extensions and contact lenses in her new life in Twelve? That even if she did, she has no interest in useless frivolities anymore? Not since…</p><p>She jumps when he reaches out to touch a piece of hair resting on her forehead, come loose from her scarf. “This real?” he asks.</p><p>She nods, pulling away a little, though not on purpose. The harmless touch of another human being… well it’s been a while. It feels scary, but nice. “Not very dazzling, I know.” An understatement if ever there was one; she’s always thought the brownish-blondish colour of her natural hair to be the ugliest colour in the world.</p><p>Haymitch just shrugs.</p><p>“I—um—I should explain,” she says, straightening once more, trying to recover some sense of pride. “I’ve left the Capitol.”</p><p>“I see that.”</p><p>Right. Right, of course. “Yes. Well, I thought, since the Victors Village was mostly uninhabited, I might come… live in one of the houses, for a while. I wanted to let you know I was here, first, to… to see if that might be a problem.” If it <em>is</em> a problem—well it’s too late for that now, isn’t it? Where else is she going to go?</p><p>Haymitch hesitates, and her stomach drops. She should have known, after the Quell… “The Village isn’t uninhabited,” he says.</p><p>That’s not what she expected.</p><p>He continues. “It was untouched by the firebombs,” he says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his track pants. “The survivors needed a place to live—”</p><p>“Right.” How could she have been so foolish? “I never thought, I’m sorry.”</p><p>One dark eyebrow twitches. “It’s alright. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”</p><p>
  <em>Nothing to be sorry for.</em>
</p><p>Well, they both know <em>that’s </em>not true.</p><p>~~~</p><p>He kisses her the night before the Quell.</p><p>It wasn’t until that fateful July morning that Katniss volunteered for her sister and changed the course of history that things began to repair between her and the veteran District Twelve Mentor. She has Katniss to thank for that, though she realises as the pair head back to their rooms for the night that she never has thanked her. Not to say Peeta had no part in it, but the sweet, thoughtful boy that he is would never have given Haymitch the necessary push to put the bottle down and try—<em>really</em> try—Mentoring again. Haymitch required something of a… rougher hand.</p><p>She looks across the sitting room at him, nearly-sober, dark curls combed back from his face with a gel that smells of Balsam fir. He looks almost a different man.</p><p>They’ve never really spoken about that night, when her failed attempt on his life opened a rift between them that didn’t begin to heal until the Star-Crossed Lovers gave him something to fight for. This year has been better, in many ways, but she supposes the time has come to really clear the air.</p><p>He snorts when she mentions it. “You call <em>that</em> an attempt on my life? You should count yourself lucky it was <em>me</em> who had to go through the arena and not you.”</p><p>She sees a flash of a young boy from a lifetime ago in the smirk on his face. Has it really been <em>twelve</em> years they’ve been working together?</p><p>Effie clears her throat, reaching for her glass of chardonnay. “Well, in any case, I…” she sighs. This went far more smoothly in her mind. “How does your bracelet fit?” She asks instead.</p><p>“It’s a bracelet. It fits.” He twists it around his wrist. Then he looks back at her, biting his lip. “But don’t change the subject, sweetheart. I thought I was about to get an apology.”</p><p>She purses her lips. “Well, if <em>that’s</em> how you’re going to be—”</p><p>“No, no,” he makes a point of shuffling closer on the sofa, turning to face her fully. He swirls the lime-and-basil sparkling water in his glass. “Please, <em>go</em> <em>on</em>.”</p><p>“I’m not sure you deserve an apology, if you’re going to be so childish about it…” she trails off, distracted by him unlinking the cuffs of his white shirt. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“I have scars. Look.” He shows her, the angular lines of smooth, silvery tissue a sharp contrast to his olive-toned skin.  </p><p>“Why would you <em>keep</em> them?”</p><p>Haymitch shrugs.</p><p>“You can afford a body polish,” she says, as though he just hasn’t thought of it. “Even a spot treatment, really Haymitch.”</p><p>He gives her a look. “I know. Never got around to it, I guess.”</p><p>“Well you can’t throw your scars in my face when you can easily get rid of them,” she declares, sitting back.</p><p>He cocks his head, grinning at her discomfort. “It’s not that hard to say, I promise. I’ll even say it with you: ‘I’m so sorry, Haymitch.’”</p><p>She rolls her eyes, taking another sip of wine. It’s not easy. Apologizing was something her dad tried to teach her, but she never seemed to be able to manage it. Even after scrapes with him, she’s much more likely to show up at his little flat with a basket of goodies or an invitation to his favourite restaurant than her hat in her hand and contrition in her heart. Forward is the only direction she ever cared to move, and apologising always felt like dredging up the past.</p><p>Haymitch has turned back to the artificial flames atop the coffee table by the time she speaks. “I <em>am</em> sorry. I don’t know what came over me, and I’m ashamed.”</p><p>Despite his teasing, he looks surprised at her words. Even he didn’t expect her to actually apologize. <em>Haymitch Abernathy</em>. What does that say about her?</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I will never throw a decanter at you ever again, I promise.”</p><p>He bursts out laughing, and she feels a smile break out across her face, despite herself. “I fucking hope not. I never would have guessed but you’ve got deadly aim.”</p><p>“Why thank you,” she says drily.</p><p>He continues laughing, grey eyes crinkling at the corners. The silence is peaceable as he settles back against the sofa, swirling his drink, staring into the flames. The air cleared… it’s nice.</p><p>“I’m sorry too.”</p><p>It’s Effie’s turn to be surprised. “What—er—pardon me?”</p><p>He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on her slip-up. “I’m sorry. For what I said that night. Our team is better for you being a part of it.” He jangles the bracelet around his wrist as proof, and when his hand comes to rest once more, it’s infinitesimally closer to her leg on the cushion. “And I should have been trying harder.”</p><p>Effie swallows back the emotion rising in her throat at his words. Heaven knows they’re all such competent people, her little team. Even Katniss and Peeta, despite being so young, are so capable, so sure of themselves. And while she may fancy herself a… well not a <em>mother, </em>exactly—she’s much too young for that—but perhaps a maternal-like figure, like an aunt of sorts, she knows they don’t need her for more than keeping them on schedule and telling them which fork to use at dinner time.</p><p>And Haymitch?</p><p>She won’t look at him for more than a second, because she does <em>not</em> want to start crying, but in the quick glance she throws his way she sees his eyes are soft, watching her. He’s completely aware of the effect his words have had. “Thank you, Haymitch.” She takes a quick sip of wine. “I appreciate that.”</p><p>He’s quiet—so is the entire room, perhaps the entire <em>city</em>—and the sound of his hand inching closer is deafening in her ears, that quiet scratch against the seat of a ring made from an old spoon he got from heaven knows where, as if that constitutes jewelry, that gaudy piece of—</p><p>It’s cool against the skin of her wrist, and she almost jumps.</p><p>She turns as he does, but why? Why does she move closer and not away? Why doesn’t she run, knowing that there’s nowhere for them to go but full-speed into a wall?</p><p>To be sure, she <em>barely</em> moves closer. She’s not sure Haymitch even notices, the way she tilts her head just so, or closes her eyes, or takes a silent, shuddering breath the moment before his lips press to hers.</p><p>He may be drinking water now, but she can taste the whiskey on his tongue, making her feel a little drunk herself as she raises one trembling hand toward his neck. His lips are soft, if a little chapped, cool from the ice and moving so slowly she wonders if the world itself has slowed its spinning.</p><p>Distantly, she hears the water running in Peeta’s bathroom, which shares a wall with the living room. The hand meant to pull Haymitch closer abruptly shoves him away instead.</p><p>“Haymitch Abernathy!” she breathes, pulling back. She yanks her wrist from his grip. “What are you doing?”</p><p>She needs to get further away, and stands, brushing her hands down her skirt, teetering a little. Haymitch doesn’t move, but she can read the flickering of emotion on his face—embarrassment, then anger. He’s sober enough to know he wasn’t imagining her reaction, the way she moved closer before she pulled away. He’s sober enough to probably still see in her eyes that she’s conflicted.</p><p>Effie puts her hands on her hips, staring down at him, trying to school her features back into something other than confused longing. “That was unkind.”</p><p>His jaw works soundlessly for a moment. “<em>Unkind?</em>”</p><p>“Yes,” she insists. “We were just starting to get along.”</p><p>His mouth remains slightly ajar for a moment, then releases a sharp laugh. Effie flinches. “I <em>see</em>.”</p><p>“Yes. Well…” she trails off, unsure of what she’s planning to say, and untrusting of her instincts to not say something foolish. “We… we have a job to do, Haymitch,” she says instead. She gestures to the hallway, toward the sound of running water. “We have to bring one of them home.”</p><p>His eyes soften a little, but she thinks she sees something else in them close off. “Right.”</p><p>She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes, and when she looks at him again, her resolve is steeled. “Goodnight Haymitch. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow, eight-thirty sharp.”</p><p>She doesn’t speak to him again until the second day of Games. Sure, she says things in his general direction, when she gives the team instructions or speaks with the Mentors in the plaza, but never to <em>him.</em> The last thing she says to him before it all goes to hell?</p><p>“Haymitch, <em>honestly</em>. An awl?”</p><p>~~~</p><p>“You can stay here.”</p><p>Her head snaps up. “Here?”</p><p>He scratches the back of his head. “If you want. Not much place else to stay, unless you want to crash with one of the kids.”</p><p>She looks across the street, at the houses she remembers to belong to Katniss and Peeta. She feels a sharp ache in her chest at the thought of seeing them again. But she’s not sure they’re ready for her, for the reminder she’ll bring of the hell they’ve just been through.</p><p>“Thank you,” she says quietly. “It’s very kind of you to offer.”</p><p>He grabs her suitcases from the stoop before she can even think to protest. “Not really,” he says. “I just can’t have you sleeping on the porch. What would the neighbours think?”</p><p>~~~</p><p>She first runs into Peeta two days later, when she answers the door to him holding two loaves of bread in his arms.</p><p>She’d seen him in the Capitol, once, before… before everything. He looks vastly different from those days, she’s happy to see.  </p><p>He stands on the porch, slack-jawed, for a few long seconds. “E-Effie?”</p><p>She’s halfway through a greeting when his arms wrap around her, cutting off any reply. He’s not an especially tall boy, but he’s taller than her now that she’s not wearing high heels all the time, and she finds the feeling of his shoulder beneath her cheek quite comforting.</p><p>“We thought… We thought you were gone.”</p><p>That surprises her. “Gone? Oh no dear, Katniss saw me in the Capitol at the end of it all—didn’t she tell you?”</p><p>He shakes his head, keeping his hands on her upper arms. “Not Katniss, she never said anything. I mean Haymitch and me. Just last week I asked him if he’d heard anything, and he said he hadn’t. We assumed the worst.”</p><p>She touches his cheek. She <em>is</em> alive, though it was touch-and-go for a bit. Many weren’t so lucky, she knows. It feels better than she could possibly say to hear she’d been fretted over during such a time of uncertainty. “Well… <em>surprise</em>,” she says, smiling. “I only arrived on Tuesday.”</p><p>She invites Peeta in, though he says he can’t stay.</p><p>“I’m just here to drop these off,” he says, holding up the loaves. “I bring some every week. But I have a few more to drop off to others… maybe, maybe we could do dinner together sometime soon, the four of us? At my place,” he adds quickly. “I don’t know how much of Haymitch’s cooking you’ve had to endure, but you’ve probably already figured out he’s not exactly ready to host any dinners.”</p><p>Truth be told, Haymitch’s skills in the kitchen are fairly on-par with her own, but she keeps this to herself. “In more ways than one. Yes, that would be lovely, Peeta. Thank you.”</p><p>He smiles, a bit awkwardly, ducking his head. “Well, how about tomorrow? I know Katniss will be eager to see you.”</p><p>He says this last part with a bit of hesitation, like it’s as much for his own benefit as hers, Effie wonders what happened to him during those months in captivity. She doesn’t think she wants to know. “Perfect. Six o’clock?”</p><p>She takes the bread, putting one loaf in the freezer and cutting herself a thick slice of the other. When was the last time she had pure carbs like this?</p><p>It’s absolute bliss.</p><p>Haymitch is out for the day, trying to get the market back up and running or some such. She doesn’t quite understand the way life worked in District Twelve before the bombings, and certainly doesn’t understand any better now. He’s <em>out</em>, of that at least she’s sure.</p><p>She’s waiting in the sitting room when he returns, sweaty and sprinkled with coal dust. She’s about to order him to shower before taking even one step closer before she remembers it’s <em>his</em> house and he can smear black dust all over the couches if he wants.</p><p>Instead she tries very hard not to pick at her cuticles. “Did… did you think I was dead?”</p><p>It’s not the greeting he was expecting, if in fact he was expecting any greeting at all. Haymitch says nothing, doesn’t even move from the threshold. He watches her.  </p><p>“Peeta came by,” she offers, quietly, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.</p><p>He nods. “He bring bread?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>The silence hangs heavy between them, and Effie isn’t sure if she should say something more or wait for him to respond.</p><p>“We didn’t know what happened,” he says, finally. “Peeta and me… we talked about it. Hoped for the best, for the fuck lot of good that does these days.”</p><p><em>That</em> she can understand all too easily.</p><p>He clears his throat. She thinks he tries to smile. “Glad you’re not, though.”</p><p>~~~</p><p>Effie cries when she sees Katniss.</p><p>She knew it would be an emotional encounter, but still she’s shocked by the tidal wave that washes over when she lays eyes on the girl for the first time in so many months. It’s like every memory comes rushing back all at once, every emotion tied to this Girl on Fire kept in a bottle that bursts open in her chest and leaks out her eyes.</p><p>Katniss holds her just as tightly, like she understands, like she was standing in the foyer of Peeta’s home just waiting for her to walk through the front door.</p><p><em>We’re a team,</em> Effie thinks, finally stepping back to look at her. Her hair is a bit shorter, just past shoulder-length, and while she’s not as healthy-looking as she was before the Quell, she’s stronger and sturdier than before her first Games. The haunted look in her eyes she saw in the Capitol has faded, and something a little closer to peace has taken its place.</p><p>“Oh my girl,” she touches her cheek, smiling. “It’s so good to see you.”</p><p>Katniss doesn’t pull away from the affection, like she has many times before. She even gives a small smile in return. “You too.”</p><p>Despite the heartwarming reuninon, dinner is a bit of an awkward affair at first. Effie wonders if the three of them haven’t spent much time together in the months that they’ve all been home.</p><p>Well, that will have to change.</p><p>It’s strange in many ways, trying to slip back into her old role like it’s a pair of shoes she’s outgrown. But she spent <em>years</em> smoothing over Haymitch’s gruffness and providing polite conversation in uncomfortable situations, and it’s not like those talents just disappear after a few months of disuse.</p><p>Effie doesn’t know what subjects are safe, but she takes that as a challenge. She can find something to chat about that doesn’t revive any old trauma, can’t she?</p><p>She asks about their neighbours, and whether Peeta is sending bread to all of them, and if Katniss is the one responsible for the lovely little gardens around her house. She compliments the stew, and listens intently as Katniss quietly regales them with her day spent hunting for something suitable to put into it.</p><p>By the time Peeta is bringing out sugar cookies for dessert, there have been a few laughs and many smiles from all four of them. She can tell there’s still tensions that she doesn’t understand (she’s not entirely sure <em>why</em> Katniss and Peeta are living in two different houses, but she assumes that’s <em>not</em> a safe topic of conversation, and so she doesn’t ask), but it’s still so <em>nice</em>. It feels familiar, and while they’ve all come so far from the people they were the last time they all sat and had a meal together, it still feels nice to experience a taste of something comfortable for once.</p><p>And a taste of something luxurious. The food is the best she’s eaten in countless months, and raises her spirits in a way that would be hard to overstate.</p><p>They spend a few more hours in the sitting room, chatting and drinking apple cider (Effie’s never had apple cider with little floating particles in it before, but finds if she can get over the visual, it tastes better than the stuff she got in the Capitol). By the time she and Haymitch are crossing the street back toward his house, she feels both heavier and lighter than she has in some time.</p><p>She’s fantasizing about a nice warm bath and then a long sleep when Haymitch’s laugh breaks her reverie. She stops, sure he’s laughing at her. “What?”</p><p>He stops too, when he realises she’s no longer following. He’s smiling when he turns around, and confirms her suspicion. “You.”</p><p>“Me <em>what?</em>” she demands, crossing her arms.</p><p>He shrugs one shoulder. “You’ve hardly spoken since you got here, but that…” he gestures vaguely. “That was the old Effie in there.”</p><p>She’s quiet for a long time, and Haymitch’s smile dissolves. “It wasn’t,” she says eventually.</p><p>He seems to realise he’s said the wrong thing. “I don’t mean that in a bad way, sweetheart, I—”</p><p>“Stop. Stop, please.” She sighs. “I don’t think I can be teased just yet, Haymitch.”</p><p>He takes a tentative step closer. “I’m sorry. I’m not teasing you. It’s good to see you animated again. The kids too—I haven’t seen either of them smile that much since I got here.”</p><p>She feels herself relax at this. “Really?” she tries not to sound too hopeful. “I thought it might bring back unpleasant memories for them… you really think it was good?”</p><p>He nods, starting to grin again. “Yeah. I mean we’ve all lost so many people…” his voice trails off. Then he shrugs. “Familiar faces are nice to have around.”</p><p>Doesn’t she know it.</p><p>~~~</p><p>Four days later, Effie is elbow-deep in the bathtub in Haymitch’s bathroom, scrubbing furiously with some cleaning supplies she borrowed from Katniss, when Haymitch surprises her so badly she nearly has a heart attack.</p><p>She holds her hand over her heart, glaring at him from the bathroom floor. “How long have you been standing there? No, don’t come any closer, you’re absolutely filthy. Goodness, have you been <em>inside</em> the coal carts?”</p><p>He raises an eyebrow. “How am I supposed to get clean if I’m not allowed to dirty the shower?”</p><p>“You can shower in my bathroom, I haven’t cleaned it yet.”</p><p>He pauses, and she realises her slip of the tongue.</p><p>“The guest bathroom, I mean.”</p><p>He chews on the inside of his cheek, then leans against the doorframe. She resists the urge to squirm in the silence.</p><p>“What <em>are</em> you doing here, Effie?”</p><p>She looks down at her gloved hands, at the ghastly baggy t-shirt and leggings she also borrowed from Katniss for her day of cleaning. “I don’t rightly know,” she says, looking back at him, mostly because she can no longer bear to look at herself. “I couldn’t stay there.”</p><p>“In the Capitol?”</p><p>She nods.</p><p>They’ve never talked about what happened to her after the Quell blew up. Presumably, if he thought she was dead, he’s at least considered that her stay in the Capitol wasn’t a pleasant one. How much he’s guessed, she doesn’t know.</p><p>“Are you planning to stay… permanently?”</p><p>“Oh, I would never presume,” she says quickly. “I—I think I’ll stay in District Twelve for… for some time, at least. I don’t plan on imposing on your hospitality longer than necessary.”</p><p>He rubs his chin. “Anyone willing to clean this place is not imposing,” he says. “Stay as long as you need.”</p><p>~~~</p><p>“Has Katniss spoken to her mother?”</p><p>Apparently it’s becoming tradition, these little conversations in the middle of the road outside Peeta’s house. This time Effie’s the one initiating.</p><p>Haymitch shrugs, not turning around. “Never asked.”</p><p>Effie crosses her arms, hurrying after him. It really <em>is</em> starting to get chilly at night. “You don’t know if she calls her?”</p><p>“If who calls who? You think Katniss is calling her mother?”</p><p>“Well, does her mother not call her? She’s in District Four; they do have <em>phones</em> there.”</p><p>Now Haymitch stops. “Like I said: I don’t ask.”</p><p>She huffs. “Well, they’re just <em>children</em>.”</p><p>Haymitch gives her a sardonic look. “They’ve grown up an awful lot the last little while, in case you haven’t noticed.”</p><p>“Of course I’ve noticed,” she snaps. “That doesn’t mean they don’t need <em>parents.</em>”</p><p>“Well Peeta’s fresh out of those,” he says darkly. “Parents are a luxury few Victors can afford. Katniss is lucky she’s got one, even if she <em>is</em> across the damn country.”</p><p>She’s never, not in any of the years they’ve worked together, asked Haymitch about his own family life. But now things are different. She feels bolder—there’s more at stake. “Did President Snow kill your family?”</p><p>Her voice is quiet, and Haymitch is so still she almost wonders if he didn’t hear her. Then his hard grey eyes flick to hers. “Did he kill yours?”</p><p>All the family she had left, that is. One lonely old man with terrible taste in furniture and no social status to speak of. That didn’t matter, in the end. It didn’t matter that she’d tried to make something of herself, either.</p><p>“When?” she asks.</p><p>“After my Games.” He’s very quiet too. “Killed them all.”</p><p>She thinks back all those years, to the fiftieth Hunger Games and the boy with the clever eyes and mocking smile. The final eight… there had been a mother, and a brother, hadn’t there? Had there also been a young girl, with bright blue eyes and long dark hair?</p><p>“My dad,” she whispers. “Eleven months ago.”</p><p>Haymitch’s head snaps up.</p><p>She starts to cry.</p><p>“Hey, hey.” His arms are around her then, and she presses herself closer.</p><p>She’s not sure how long they stay like that, but the crying stops before the embrace does. “There was no reason to kill him,” she says with a sniff. “He never wanted any part of… of any of it.”</p><p>Finally she pulls back, though she was quite enjoying the way he was smoothing circles into the coat on her back. She tries to smile. “We—we should have dinner with them twice a week.”</p><p>She jumps at his whip-crack of a laugh. “Sweetheart, we aren’t their parents.”</p><p>She sniffs. “I know. But the four of us…we’re all we have.”</p><p>~~~</p><p>It’s December before they’ve learned to cook well enough to actually return the favour.</p><p>Effie has wanted to alternate hosting duties for their bi-weekly dinners since the tradition began in late September, but Katniss and Peeta had adamantly refused (as politely as they could manage—and oh she taught them well).</p><p>She gets it, really. She wasn’t offended. Katniss was probably cooking better than either of them when she was ten-years-old, and Peeta probably learned to bake before he learned to read.</p><p>But by December, they’re ready.</p><p>They still get fresh meat from Katniss, and Peeta offers to bring dinner rolls (which they obviously don’t refuse), but everything else she and Haymitch worked on themselves. It doesn’t taste as good as the dinners the kids put on, but something about it is more satisfying, Effie thinks. She put a lot of work into the potatoes, so what if they’re a little salty?</p><p>They spend all of the evening afterward looking through the book Katniss and Peeta have been working on for months. It’s beautiful, and makes her tear up more than once. The paintings, the descriptions of people she’s never met… she’s getting a glimpse into their lives, into the lives of people she wishes she could have known. How did she ever think everyone here was a savage?</p><p>It’s very late by the time she and Haymitch are back in the kitchen, washing dishes and packing the leftovers into the refrigerator. Clean-up seems to take forever, but then they <em>did</em> make a right mess of the kitchen that afternoon while trying to come up with something palatable.</p><p>“Where did this come from?” Haymitch asks, holding up the deep pan used to roast the pheasant.</p><p>Effie points with the spoon she’s washing. “Top shelf.”</p><p>“Why would we put the heaviest fucking dish on the <em>top </em>shelf?” he mutters, yanking open the cupboard door.</p><p>She steps aside so he can better reach, and gets a whiff of balsam fir as he puts the pan back in its place. She smiles. “Have you been using that hair gel Cinna gave you?” she asks.</p><p>Haymitch raises his eyebrows, grabbing the gravy pot from the dishrack. “Why?”</p><p>She taps her nose. “It smells nice.”</p><p>He looks almost uncomfortable with the comment, which makes her chuckle.</p><p>“It’s not a <em>bad</em> thing, Haymitch. I’m a little surprised you still have it.”</p><p>“Cinna left me some when he came by before the Victory Tour,” he explains. “Enough to last a lifetime, at the rate I go through it.”</p><p>“I suppose there’s not much need for hair product around here, is there?”</p><p>He shrugs. “Well, you never know. With you living here now, who knows how long it will be before we’re having parties every weekend that I need to get dressed up for.”</p><p>“Oh, at <em>least</em> every weekend,” she teases. “And you’ll always be invited.”</p><p>“Invited? I won’t be hosting?”</p><p>She stops, turning to face him, but his back is to her as he keeps putting away dishes. “Well, not when I have a place of my own, I suppose. Maybe you can host every <em>once</em> in a while.”</p><p>He throws the dish towel over his shoulder, mimicking her casual stance, leaning against the counter. “Have you been shopping for houses?”</p><p>“Well, no…”</p><p>He looks ready to tease her some more, then abruptly changes his mind. “Peeta will probably be moving in with Katniss soon.”</p><p>And his house will be empty. “Oh.” She clears her throat. “Has he said when?”</p><p>“No. Hasn’t said anything about it—I just know those two. They’ve had their shit to work through, but they’re running out of reasons to sleep on opposite sides of the street.”</p><p><em>What about us?</em> She wants to ask. <em>Have we?</em></p><p>She can’t pretend it hasn’t been nice to occasionally find Haymitch up when she’s awake at three in the morning with nothing better to do than wander the halls. And lately she’s been thinking that it has something specific to do with Haymitch, and not just her loneliness.</p><p>“Well, I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”</p><p>~~~</p><p>She kisses him a week later.</p><p>Haymitch’s prediction had come true: at dinner that night Peeta had quietly told them that he’d be moving into the bedroom opposite Katniss’s. With a small smile he’d asked if they’d be willing to help them move some of his things that Saturday.</p><p>“I’m not sure who the kid thinks he’s fooling,” Haymitch says, once they’re barely off the porch. He doesn’t bother zipping up his coat. “Maybe just <em>himself</em>. He won’t be in the spare bedroom for long.”</p><p>Effie pulls on the soft leather gloves from her pocket—one of the few practical things she’d brought with her from the Capitol. “You sound very sure of that.”</p><p>Haymitch chuckles. “You remember the train. After the first few nightmares they’ll realise that it just makes sense for them to share the bed.” He raises his hands. “I’m not saying there’ll be a toasting in the next year even. But those two are good for each other, and they know that as well as anyone.”</p><p>“That’s… that’s good,” she says. “I’m glad they have each other.”</p><p>She has nightmares too. So does Haymitch, though she’s never breathed a word about hearing him shout himself awake at night. No one’s ever been there for him, like Peeta and Katniss are for each other.</p><p>“I guess this means you’ll have a house of your own come Sunday, if you want it.”  </p><p>Effie stops, turning back to look at the house they’ve just left. It <em>is</em> nice… it’s objectively nicer than Haymitch’s; all the cleaning and tidying she’s been doing isn’t going to make up for years of abuse and neglect, but Peeta’s house is still in pristine condition. Not to mention all of his furniture is still intact.</p><p>Still… she doesn’t want to live there. Not all alone.</p><p>But she has no other plan. To turn this down is to encroach unnecessarily on Haymitch’s space, and he’s already been so generous with letting her stay here this long.</p><p>She looks up as snow begins to fall, adding another layer to the thin coating already on the ground. Snow comes later in District Twelve than in the Capitol, and it feels almost like time has slowed down while she’s been here, and is just starting to move again. She can never go back to the life she had, the life of striving and climbing and parties and wigs, but maybe it’s still time to move on. Start a new chapter for her, keep moving forward instead of wallowing where she is, lamenting all the things she wanted and couldn’t get.</p><p>But maybe there are some things she wants that she <em>can</em> get.</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>“Are you coming?”</p><p>She turns back, following him.</p><p>They’re only a few steps from the porch, but apparently that’s as long as Effie needs to make up her mind.</p><p>“Wait,” she calls, stopping him just before the steps. “Haymitch, I…” A fat snowflake lands on a curl hanging over his forehead. She watches it melt slowly, feeling foolish, not sure what she wants to say. “I don’t want to leave.”</p><p>She reaches with one trembling hand for the open lapel of his coat, pulling him closer.</p><p>She doesn’t pull away this time, not until she’s breathless and dizzy and smiling foolishly against his mouth. Even then, she keeps her forehead resting against his, not wanting to let him get too far away.</p><p>He wipes his thumbs across her cheeks, their quick breaths forming one puff of vapour in the winter air. Of course, keeping him so close just makes her want to kiss him again.</p><p>And again.  </p><p>“I don’t want you to leave either.”</p><p>Since she was young, she’s chased all kinds of things she thought would make her happy. She can’t count the people she’s stepped over because she thought they were in the way of her getting the things she wanted, and for years she wished she could do the same with Haymitch. Wished he would help her leave him and District Twelve behind.</p><p>She’s still not sure what made her really decide to come back here. Maybe she’ll never really be able to pull apart the complicated feelings that pushed her to sell her father’s flat and pack her bags and get on a train.</p><p>But now she wonders if maybe, somewhere deep inside, she was just doing what she’s always done: chasing what she wants most.</p><p>“Come on,” he kisses her nose. “Let’s go home.”</p>
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